Destiny

by Sally Beauman

  “They’re dead. It won’t do no good waterin’ ’em. Not when they’re dead.” He paused. “You want me to get you some fresh ones? I know where there’s plenty. Better’n that. Real big ones. Down by the creek.”

  Hélène sat back on her heels and looked at him cautiously. He made the offer casually, but it was a nice offer. Most of the Tanners would have jeered, or kicked the rocks all over. But Billy was nicer than the other Tanners, she remembered that. Once, when Mississippi Mary used to look after her, she fell over in the trailer park, and Billy Tanner picked her up and washed the cut under the pump. She hesitated.

  “It’s an English garden,” she said finally. “It looked pretty yesterday.”

  Billy grinned. He squatted down beside her in the dirt. “An English garden? You ever see an English garden?”

  “No. But my mother has. She told me all about them. They’re all green and they have lots and lots of flowers. Like the gardens up at the Calverts’, only better.”

  “Uh-huh.” He bent forward and deftly rearranged the rocks. “You want to do it like that—make a dam, see? Then the water won’t run out. You want to try it again now?”

  Hélène tried. She poured the water cautiously. It formed a pool right in front of the rocks, just the way she wanted. Gradually it drained away, and she smiled.

  “Thank you.”

  “’S all right.” He shrugged. He was looking at her sideways, Hélène saw, looking at her hair, and the best dress, and her bare legs and sandals. It made her feel odd at first, to be looked at like that, but he didn’t touch her or anything, and after a while she began to like it.

  “Your hair looks real pretty, you know that?” He spoke suddenly, and to Hélène’s surprise she saw that he colored up as he spoke. His face went beet-red, and he wasn’t smiling.

  “I saw a girl looked like you, once. In a picture book. In the schoolhouse.”

  Hélène looked at him uncertainly, wondering if this were a compliment. But before she could answer, Billy wrinkled up his nose and laughed.

  “You smell real funny though. Yuk—what a stink!”

  “What do you know? It’s scent. French scent. My mother gave me some. It’s the most expensive scent in the world, so there, Billy Tanner!”

  “It is?”

  “Yes, it is. It’s called Joy.” She gave him a dignified glance, then held out her wrist. “Smell properly, there—see? It’s nice.”

  Billy hesitated, then bent awkwardly over her wrist. He sniffed.

  “You mean perfume? That’s some kind of perfume?” His eyes were round with disbelief. “It smells like an old tomcat.”

  “It does not!” Hélène snatched her wrist away angrily.

  “Suit yourself.” He shrugged and stood up. He moved off a few paces, looked up at the sky, then down at the dirt, then back at her.

  “Your mama out? You want to come swimming?” He hesitated. “I know a good place. ’Round back of the old cotton field. No kids, no niggers. It’s great.” He paused. “I ain’t even taken my brothers ’n’ sisters ’round by there.”

  “I’m not allowed. I have to stay here. Till my mother gets back. When the hands on the clock reach those red stickers—see, there, in the kitchen.” Hélène paused importantly. “She’s gone out to see a friend.”

  Billy strode over to the trailer and stared in the window. Then he laughed.

  “Six! She ain’t comin’ back till six. That’s more’n three hours from now. What you goin’ do for three hours? Stick around in the dirt? You must be crazy. Come swimming. Your mama’ll never even know.”

  Hélène stared at him. She wanted to go. Suddenly she wanted to go very much. He was right. It was horrid just sitting here waiting, horrid and hot and lonesome. She bit her lip.

  “I—I can’t swim,” she said eventually.

  “I’ll teach you. No problem.” He began to whistle, then stopped. “How old are you, anyways?”

  “Seven.”

  This seemed to surprise him, because he looked at her again, slowly, up and down, the way he had before.

  “I thought you was older than that. You look older.” He paused. “You’re just a kid.”

  “I am not.” Hélène stood up indignantly. “I can read and write, and…”

  “Letters? You mean you can read letters? Since when?”

  “Since I was five. My mother taught me. Before I started school.” She paused, looking at him appraisingly. “Can you read letters?”

  “Sure. Sure I can. I read a book. Two maybe. With pictures, you know—like I said. My mama was real proud when she heared me spellin’ it out. It’s more ’n my daddy can do, and he’s a grown man.”

  Hélène listened to this carefully. He didn’t seem to be ashamed of the fact that his father couldn’t read. She hesitated.

  “How old are you?”

  “Eleven. Twelve come Thanksgiving.” He scuffed the dust. “You comin’ swimming—yes or no?”

  Hélène took a deep breath.

  “All right.” She looked back anxiously at the clock. “But just for a little while.”

  “Sure.” Billy laughed. He looked pleased, and vaulted the little gate. “Come on, then. You talk real funny, anyone ever tell you that?”

  The pool was in a little hollow, surrounded by cottonwood trees. To reach it, they took the dirt track that led up to the Calverts’ plantation, and then cut off along a ditch that ran through the fields. Far over to their left Hélène could see the roofs of the tarpaper shacks where Mississippi Mary lived and a curl of smoke drifting up into the lead blue of the sky. Away to their right were the cotton fields Major Calvert still worked, then a great line of swamp cypress that shielded the house and gardens from the fields.

  She followed Billy with difficulty, stumbling along over rutted mud, sharp grass and brambles catching at her dress. She felt hot and out of breath and filled with excitement and alarm all at once. Her skin was clammy, and her best dress clung to her body and itched her under the arms. After a while Billy came to a halt. He rolled some saliva around in his mouth and then spat in the dust. He grinned at her, and she noticed for the first time how blue his eyes were against the tan of his skin. He held out his hand and gave a jerk of the head.

  “Through there. See?”

  Hélène stared, wide-eyed. He was pointing to the cottonwood trees which grew down the sides of a small gully. They were right in behind the swamp cypress.

  “In there? But that’s so near the big house. It’s right by the gardens, isn’t it?”

  Billy winked. “Sure is. But we ain’t goin’ in the front way.”

  He pulled her forward, over a ditch, and into some undergrowth. Right there in front of them was a barbed-wire fence. Billy put his fingers to his lips.

  “Okay. I’ll hold the wire, and you squeeze under it. There’s a little bitty gap right there—see? Go on—what you waitin’ for? And keep your voice down, okay? We got to sort of creep ’round the edge of the gardens, then we get away to the pool. We’ll be just fine then—I told you. Ain’t nobody goes near that place…”

  Hélène hesitated; then, carefully holding her dress away from the wire, she crept underneath. Billy followed her and took her hand again. She was glad. They were among thick overgrown bushes now, and it was dark and scratchy. Every now and then there was a tiny gap in the branches, and through them she caught a glimpse of green grass, the ends of tall white pillars. Her heart was beating very fast, and she seemed to herself to be making a terrible amount of noise, though Billy could move ahead of her quite soundlessly. Once or twice he ducked down and crouched, listening, and Hélène’s heart beat even faster. What if someone heard them? What if one of the gardeners found them, or worse, Major Calvert himself? What if he came striding through the shrubbery in his white suit, and…she tugged desperately at Billy’s hand. He stopped.

  Hélène felt herself go crimson with embarrassment. She stood there, stock still, clutching her skirts.

  “Billy. Billy. I want to…I h
ave to…”

  Billy’s face split apart in a wide grin. “It’s okay. I felt like that the first time I come through here. It’s the keeping quiet that does it. You can piss behind the bush right there. It’s okay. I won’t look.”

  Hélène stared at him in astonishment. He didn’t look embarrassed at all, and she’d just learned a new word. Not a word Mother would like, she was certain of it.

  She gave a little giggle. Billy raised his eyes to the sky.

  “Girls! Hurry…”

  So Hélène went behind the bush, and when she came out she felt a whole lot better. She took Billy’s hand again, and they went on, Indian file. Hélène stepped where he stepped; that way she made hardly any noise, and she felt pleased with herself. Piss, she said softly to herself under her breath. Piss. It was a nice word. She liked it. She was learning.

  Just on the edge of the gully and the cottonwood trees, there was a little clearing. You couldn’t see the big house now, it was hidden by shrubs, and Hélène guessed they must be in back of it. In front of them there was some scrubby ill-kept grass, as yellow and brown as the grass in the trailer park. On their right she could just see a funny little wooden shack, surrounded by bushes. Billy paused. He looked to the right and left. Hélène tugged his hand.

  “Billy, Billy—what’s that place there? That little shack?”

  Billy grinned. “That? That’s some kind of summerhouse, they call it. Nice and private, you know?”

  “Private?” Hélène stared at him. He seemed to be amused by something, and she couldn’t imagine what. She knew what summerhouses were: they had them in English gardens.

  “Sure.” Billy hesitated. “My mama says old man Calvert had it put up. Used to go there with the nigger ladies—you know? But I guess I don’t believe that. Just an old story, I guess…”

  Hélène’s eyes grew round.

  “Old man Calvert? You mean Major Calvert?”

  Billy laughed. “Not him! His old daddy, I mean. Died a long ways back—a real mean sonuvabitch, my mama says…” He pulled her hand. “Come on now—over here.”

  He pulled her quickly across the grass, into the gully, and out of sight. Then down through the trees, a sharp steep drop, and there was the pool.

  They stopped, and Hélène looked at it silently. It was cooler in here under the trees, and the water was still and brown. On its surface two dragonflies darted and lit; their wings were iridescent. She frowned. “Nigger ladies?” She’d never said that word before, and she knew her mother wouldn’t like it. “I don’t understand. Why would a white man take a nigger lady to a summerhouse?”

  “Well now, it’s a mystery, I guess…” Billy drawled, and Hélène felt cross for a minute because she realized there was something he knew and he wasn’t going to tell her. Then the next minute she forgot all about it, because Billy let go her hand, and dived clean into the water, jeans and all.

  He surfaced, spluttering. Diamonds of water ran down his face.

  “You comin’ in?”

  Hélène hesitated. The etiquette of this situation was beyond her. She didn’t know what she ought to do, and she didn’t much care. All she knew was that she was hot, and she wanted to be in that water.

  “I shall take my dress off,” she said at last, with dignity. “I shall swim in my knickers.”

  “Suits me. Anyways you like.” Billy ducked casually back under the water.

  Carefully and methodically, Hélène undressed. She took off her sandals and folded her dress neatly on top of them. Then she tiptoed down to the edge of the water. Billy swam over and stood up. He held out his hand to her.

  “Come on.” He looked at her again, and again she saw that queer look in his eyes. They went very serious, and they seemed to turn darker. He looked at her like he wanted to go on looking for a long time, and couldn’t quite believe what he saw.

  “Come on,” he said again, more softly this time. Then he reached up, very gently took her hand, and helped her down into the water.

  Hélène gave a little cry. She could feel soft cool mud between her toes, and the water was so cold it almost took her breath away. She moved a step forward, and the ground wasn’t there. Water was washing up over her hair and chin. She floundered and cried out.

  Billy caught her. She felt his arms come around her and lift her up, and then before she knew it, she was floating.

  “Isn’t it just great?” Billy smiled at her, and she noticed he had a chip in his front tooth. “Isn’t that just the greatest feeling in the whole wide world?”

  “Oh, it is, Billy,” she said. “It is.”

  Afterward they sat on the muddy bank in a patch of sunlight to get dry. From time to time, Billy picked up little bits of rock and tossed them into the pool, and they watched the ripples widen. He’d become very quiet, Hélène thought.

  “I wasn’t very good,” she said at last in a small voice. “It’s harder than it looks.”

  “You done good.” Billy sounded definite. “You swum three strokes. Four maybe. Near on four.”

  There was a little silence. Billy threw another stone.

  “You want to come here again?” he said at last, his voice very casual. “I’ll bring you, if you want to. Your mama works some mornings over at Cassie Wyatt’s place, right? I’ll bring you then, maybe.”

  “Would you?” Hélène turned to him with an eager smile. “I’d like that very much.” She stopped and frowned.

  “I shouldn’t though. My mother would be very cross if she knew.”

  “Don’t tell her. Why let on? Folks need a secret—everybody does. I remember my daddy sayin’ that.” He paused. “This place is my secret. I like it here. It’s quiet and it’s pretty, real pretty. I come here sometimes—in winter even. Just to be by myself. When I get sick of the other kids—you know.”

  He hesitated, and she knew he was looking at her again in that way he did, though she didn’t turn her head.

  “It can be your secret, too, if you want.” With a funny stealthy movement he took her hand, and then let it go again.

  “You’re pretty, too, real pretty. So it kind of makes sense, bringin’ you here. You know…” He hesitated again, as if unsure whether to go on, and Hélène turned to look at him. “You know, the other kids, they don’t want to have nothin’ to do with you. Say you’re stuck up, that kind of thing. But I don’t think so. You talk funny, that’s for sure.” He grinned. “But that ain’t your fault. And they say your mama has fancy ways, and she give you a stupid fancy name. But I think it’s a real pretty name, and I never even said it. Not to you.”

  Hélène looked at him uncertainly.

  “It’s French,” she said at last, still not sure if he might not burst out laughing the way some of the other Tanner kids did once when she told them.

  “It’s really an English name, but you’re supposed to say it the way the French do. My mother likes it like that. She says it’s softer. Like—you know—sort of like a sigh.”

  “I like that. You’ve got a funny English voice and a funny French name, and they suit you. And your hair—you know, when the sun shines on your hair, it’s the same color as corn when it’s ripe. I’ve seen corn that color—all gold. I saw it up in Iowa once. Fields of it. I’ve got an uncle up in Iowa—” He broke off, and stood up. He tossed one last little rock into the pool and watched the ripples. “So—you goin’ to come with me here again? Let me teach you to swim real good? Let it be our secret—just you and me?”

  Hélène got to her feet. She put on her sandals slowly, then pulled her dress on over her shoulders. Billy pulled up the zipper for her. All the time she did that she was trying to think—knowing she ought to say no, and knowing she didn’t want to. She felt queer inside, all excited and happy somehow, like she wanted to dance.

  She looked up into Billy’s eyes, which were as blue as a kingfisher’s wing.

  “All right, Billy,” she said.

  Billy leaned forward. He planted a dry quick kiss on her cheek.

&n
bsp; “That’s our secret too,” he said. His face had gone beet-red again. “And don’t tell no one I did it, see?”

  “No, Billy.”

  “I don’t want no one saying I’m stuck on some kid, all right? We’re friends, okay? Now—let’s go home.”

  He helped her back up the steep gully and through the cottonwood out into the clearing. Then he stopped, and she saw his head go up, like an animal’s, as he listened. She didn’t know why at first, then she heard it too. A man’s voice, muffled; then a woman’s laugh; then a funny noise, a bit like a sigh, a bit like a groan. It was coming from the little wood shack, the summerhouse. She saw Billy glance at the shack, then back at her, then he grabbed her hand and started to run. He didn’t stop running, not even in the bushes, not till they were under the wire and out on the edge of the fields again. Then he stopped. They were both panting.

  “What was that, Billy, in the shack? What was it?”

  “Some folks. Nothin’…”

  “Could you see them? I couldn’t see them. What were they doing?”

  “Just a little. Lovemakin’—courtin’—you know.”

  “I don’t—I don’t…” He had moved off again, and she had to run to keep up with him. “Who was it? Could you see? Was it a colored lady?”

  “No way. She was white.” He stopped for a second, frowned, then shook his head. “None of our business, anyways. Come on home now—look.” He gestured up to the sky. “It’s going to rain real soon. Hurry.”

  But the rain held off. Billy got her back to the yard and left her there, and she sat outside in the heavy sun until her knickers and her hair were quite dry. That was a relief: no questions from Mother now, and if there were, she’d just say she got wet over by the pump, getting the water.

  Her mother came into sight just as the first large drops of rain began to fall. Hélène saw her look up at the sky, and down at her dress, and then start to run. She ran awkwardly in her best high-heeled shoes, and her hair was mussed up from the wind, and she couldn’t have touched up her face because her lipstick was all gone. She ran in through the little gate and scooped Hélène up, and ran into the trailer with her, laughing.